The Creepers (Book 1)

by Norman Dixon

  The Remington boomed, but his shot missed the mark. It did cause the wild men to stumble, and Ecky flinched, but he didn’t stop running, though, he did began to shout something in Russian. Bobby chambered a round, accounted for the height and distance just like Ol’ Randy taught him, settled his aim on center mass, and fired again.

  He didn’t miss this time.

  The bullet caught the wild man in the chest, tore through his heart, and dropped him mid-stride, his lifeless body sliding along for at least a dozen feet.

  Bobby racked the bolt back, forgetting everything but the target. He adjusted his aim to account for the man’s slumped running posture. The wild man’s head was tucked down between his shoulders as if he were running in mid-cringe, trying to make himself a smaller target. But that act of self preservation only allowed Bobby to pull off a headshot on a running target at nearly three hundred yards.

  Bobby chambered another round. He had only two bullets left. Ducking under the strap once again Bobby pulled his knife free. Ecky was almost at the trees.

  “Son of bitch, I felt last one brush my cheek,” Ecky shouted with a smile. The adrenaline rush had him giddy, and for the briefest of moments, the fear lay buried beneath it.

  “What happened back there? I thought you said no shooting unless—”

  “—Unless,” Ecky gasped for air. “Unless, we had to. Had to." Ecky started moving deeper into the woods. He didn’t need to watch for the pursuit. He knew they were coming.

  Bobby followed along close at hand. He kept looking back over his shoulder, but he could barely make out the town now through the dense pines. The sound of his shots scattered any wildlife in the area, covering the hillside in silence. Which only made the crazed shouts of the wild people seem louder.

  Branches and roots slapped and grabbed at him, cut his face, his hands, but he kept his weary limbs moving. He concentrated on his breathing and tried to forget about all the pain that thumped his body.

  They ran for what seemed to Bobby like hours, but the sun hadn’t moved. The woman’s shrill voice ripped through the woods, echoing off the trees, as if she were everywhere around them. Branches snapped, leaves crunched, but in the thick trees it was impossible for Bobby to pinpoint a direction. Her cries, bolstered by those of the men, picked up tempo like a beating drum.

  A wild man came crashing through the trees to Bobby’s left. The man lifted a long rusty blade, but never got a chance to follow through on his swing, as Ecky’s weapon poked two holes in his chest.

  “Fucking, savages. I thought we ran from undead, not our own people, fucking world is crazy, all crazy." Yannek jumped over a fallen tree and continued to rant while he ran. “Is good place this time of year, go to Colorado, take some time off, have fun he says. World decided to go to shit on my vacation, and twenty years later . . . look at me, running through woods from wild people.”

  “Shut up and keep running,” Bobby yelled, overtaking the lagging engineer.

  “Cute.”

  Bobby exited the stretch of trees first, stumbling down a rocky scrub that served as a drainage ditch for the highway. His ankle rolled underneath him in the loose rocks, sending him into a tumble, and the heavy pack carried him the rest of the way. He smashed his jaw, his nose, scraped his hands, overwhelming pain eradicated every sense of coherence. Vibrant colors exploded before his eyes. Blackness creeping in, he tried to scream as he fell into it. Every sound entered his ears through a cotton-stuffed filter.

  A pinpoint of white light drifted in front of him. But before he could reach for it he was being yanked backwards. No, not backwards, but up.

  “On your feet, soldier,” Ecky said, yanking the boy to his feet. The engineer dragged Bobby through the rest of ditch and up the thick grass before he regained his footing.

  Each time Bobby’s right foot hit the ground it was like a bolt of lightning went up his leg and directly into his brain. If it wasn’t for Ecky’s hand clutching his pack, he couldn’t have kept up. He retched. His stomach roiling from the pain, Bobby lost the few scraps of food in his belly. The world tilted.

  Yannek did not let go of his pack. “Keep moving, keep moving!”

  Another lightning bolt, a thunderclap rattled his head, but he kept moving. Bobby shifted his weight to his left leg, hobbling along for dear life. With Ecky’s guiding hand they moved between the abandoned cars on the highway. The woman was still carrying the choir of psychopaths, but once they hit the highway, even with Bobby’s ankle, they managed to put some distance between themselves and the lunatics.

  Bobby wondered if they stopped to mourn their dead. Most of them were around Bobby’s age—on another world, in another time, he might’ve played ball with them. Instead, he found himself able to answer Ecky’s question from earlier in the winter. If it came down to acting, to making the decision to kill another person, could he do it? He could, and he didn’t even feel sorry about it. The pain shooting up his leg, blurring his vision; the fear rifling through his system made it abundantly clear what was at stake. It was simple really. Kill or be killed. And Bobby liked being the one doing the killing.

  They ran down the highway on the verge of total collapse. Soon they’d have to stop and rest, and perhaps, to make a last stand.

  Ecky focused on keeping Bobby moving despite the pain, and at the same time he had to keep an eye out for Creepers while checking over his shoulder for pursuit. He kept to the highway because it was easier on Bobby’s foot and it allowed them a little bit of speed. With Bobby leaning on him for support Ecky followed the bend of the highway, putting the hillside and Gainer out of sight. They still had many miles ahead of them, and the possibility of life-ending danger increased with each step.

  CHAPTER 16

  The pain left along with the cold weather, but the itching had become maddening. If only he could scratch the itch, give in to the temptation, such an easy thing . . . if he only had a leg to scratch.

  Pastor Craven leaned on his cane, Good Book grasped tightly, staring out the window onto the Settlement’s grounds. The winter had been long. They lost two young ones, and three others over those trying months. All of the deaths could have been prevented, he was sure, had Lyda been alive. And Randy still remained silent about the boy’s whereabouts—the stubborn bastard wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t lie even after, at the Pastor’s orders, his meals were withheld. It still amazed him how much weight the massive man lost over the course of the winter.

  For all he knew the disgusting child died at the hands of one its own, but he couldn’t quite talk himself into that scenario. Yannek was too capable a survivalist to fall at the hands of the dead. Would he make for the Baylor’s train? Or would he head further north, Wyoming perhaps, to carve out a new life? The Pastor dug his knuckle into the rough pine of the windowsill, twisting until his dry skin cracked, bleeding now, he ground the sharp point of bone harder, harder still.

  Working his way through the pain frustration continued to mount. Even the Lord offered no guidance when it came to the matters of the engineer and the child. He must not fret—spring demanded a clear head—there were matters to handle.

  Jackson, Thomas, and a few of the younger men were already on their way to Baylor’s stop to barter for whatever they could. Pastor Craven dragged his knuckle across the wood, wishing he had been able to travel with them, but his lame leg would not allow it, besides, the Lord wanted him to remain with the flock. His orders, however, were quite clear. If Jackson were to encounter Yannek and the boy he was to eliminate them in the name of God.

  Blood running between his fingers filling the craggy wrinkles with tiny rivers of red. The Pastor swirled his digits in a stiff glass of whiskey. He welcomed the pain. It allowed him to communicate clearly with the Heavenly Father. Since Randy destroyed his leg it was the only way he could hear the will of Heaven at all.

  “I thank you for this bounty, Lord,” Pastor Craven said, raising the blood-clouded glass to the sunlight. He clinked it off the windowpane and sipped. The injury
, along with his healthier drinking habit, added years to his sagging face. His eyes found despair wherever he looked, and to think, just a few short months prior he, not only saw, but knew hope on an intimate level.

  “Lyda . . ." A rare, wayward tear navigated the uncharted territories beneath his eyes. “Lord, please guide me through these dark days. I must keep our people on the path to Heaven. I must avenge you, O’Lord, I must set things right. Allow me the chance to send that demon back to Satan.”

  A knock at the door interrupted his prayer.

  “Yes?”

  “Pastor, sorry to bother you,” Cale said from behind the door. He knew better than to open it without permission. It was like breaking and entering the house of God.

  No, you’re not, the Pastor thought sourly. His time with the Lord was a rare thing these days, and such interruptions were . . . borderline blasphemous. “What is it, Cale,” he asked in an irritated tone.

  “Well, Pastor, it’s Randy again. He’s refusing to eat. He doesn’t look good, Pastor." Cale’s voice shook as he spoke. The young man made no attempt to cover the sincerity of his concern for the aged veteran.

  “We can’t have him refusing the bounties of the Lord now can we?”

  “Pastor.”

  “Suicide is a sin, Cale, and we can’t have a hero of that caliber waltz into the Devil’s army. Shove the food down his throat if you have to . . . just be mindful he doesn’t choke, or it’ll be you who joins the Devil’s brigade for murder." The Pastor sucked on his knuckle, enjoying the coppery treat with a sad smile. He had lost the voice of the Lord.

  “Yes, Pastor." Cale’s footsteps sounded out his displeasure at the order.

  “Good Lord . . . why couldn’t they all be like that young man? Obedient, loyal, never questioning, even when he doesn’t agree?”

  But the Lord didn’t hear his question. The voice of Heaven remained silent.

  “I’ll have to change that,” Pastor Craven mused, eyeing his buck knife gleaming on the counter.

  * * * * *

  Ol’ Randy flexed his aching hands and knees as he prepared for his morning ritual. Even though spring had arrived, the chill had not yet left the stone walls of the brig. He began with pushups, one hundred to be exact, though, after he’d burned through his body’s store of fat his exercises became counter-productive. But he was a stickler for routine, keeping it up at all costs, including muscle loss. He didn’t have a scale, but he felt about twenty, maybe thirty pounds lighter. The boy tried to get him to eat, but he hadn’t the stomach for it most days.

  Hunger pangs aside, a gnawing sense of dread wormed its way around his insides, a sure sign that something bad was brewing. Each dip of his body sent cracks rattling through his bones. Through gritted teeth he counted out every pain-filled rep.

  Recently, his mind had begun to go. It was becoming increasingly harder and harder to keep track of his thoughts. Bobby and Yannek were always there, as was the guilt of never being able to meet them come spring. Somewhere in his head existed the fantasy world of what could’ve been. A world in which he would see Bobby, save them all, but it could never be a reality . . . not for him. At least there was hope for Bobby.

  As he moved from pushups to sit-ups, a rogue thought fluttered into his mind like a bird casting a shadow ten times its size. Had any of the children that came before the brothers made it? It was impossible to ever know the answer to that question. He only had his imagination to supply an outcome he saw fit. It was all he could do. His will to fight left him the night his boys were murdered by their own, and he had been helpless to stop it—hell, he didn’t even see it coming, at least, not to the level it finally rose to.

  But what could he do now? He was dying, and it had nothing to do with the lack of food. He felt it early in the winter, a burning pain in his left side like a hand of sharp stone clenching and unclenching his kidney, over and over for hours on end. He’d vomit and sweat and he’d pray, for he knew what the sign meant. Death was on his way. The Lord was in the act of calling him home.

  The headaches and memory loss started not long after. Now here it was, first thaw, and he could scarcely remember everything that had brought him to this moment. Images came and went. Things that he’d done, had done to him, things that didn’t quite make sense, a movie reel of his life cut apart and stitched together again in random order. Was it his body shutting down, or was it yet another of the Lord’s commands?

  He heard Cale’s purposeful footsteps long before the young man stopped in front of his cell. When the keys rattled in the lock everything collapsed within. How many sit-ups? What did the Lord want of him? Bobby . . . Yannek . . . what of the future?

  “You have to eat something, sir,” the young man pleaded without being overly loud. He was so afraid a harsher tone would break the old man in half. “You can’t keep refusing to eat.”

  “Sure I can. Just like he can refuse me meals whenever he likes." Ol’ Randy stood with a grunting effort. Cold sweat rolled down his chest and back.

  “But you can’t keep playing this game. Look what it’s doing to you." Cale didn’t know what else to do. He’d watched the Pastor and Ol’ Randy wage a war of attrition between each other over the course of the winter. To what end? He knew neither one would give, even if it meant death.

  “Son, do you know it’s spring now. Baylor will be coming through the pass. I need to get ready." Ol’ Randy spoke directly to Cale, but his eyes saw a different reality.

  Cale had become used to these interspersed musings. He waited and said calmly, “Jackson and Thomas have already left to meet him.”

  The young man’s words set off a chain of explosions that ripped Ol’ Randy’s mind apart. He fell to his knees as he tried to put everything together. This was the dread he’d felt. Bobby wasn’t safe. Somehow, he had to warn the boy, but what could he do. “Get me out of here!" He grabbed Cale’s leg.

  “Sir, I can’t.”

  “You have to . . . for him."

  “For who?”

  “The boy." Ol’ Randy stood, as if nothing had happened. He loomed over the younger man, and even though he was thinner now, he still made for an intimidating figure. Cale backed up.

  “You mean Bobby?" The Pastor tried to get Ol’ Randy to speak of him, and Yannek, but Ol’ Randy would not give in. And even when the Pastor was not around, Ol’ Randy remained silent when it came to Cale’s questions about the boy. He never had any intention of being the Pastor’s snitch, but he wanted to know what had happened to them. Yannek was practically a brother to him.

  Ol’ Randy scowled at him like a massive cliff in a dream, ready to crack, and send him into oblivion. He had to be careful, though, Ol’ Randy seemed lucid, but the wrong word could send him into a fit. Cale knew that all too well, and had the missing tooth to prove it. About six months ago when the old man first started acting strange Cale had mentioned that one of the kids had come down with a severe case of the flu and wouldn’t make it. Before he even knew what was happening Ol’ Randy was on him, screaming that he was wrong about him. It seemed that Bobby was the only constant in the man’s troubled mind.

  “Yes." Ol’ Randy slumped on the cot. Shoulders sagging, he went on, “Yes, I mean Bobby. You have to get me out of here.”

  “I . . . how can you ask that of me?" Cale loved the old man deeply, but he wasn’t about to be an outcast, or worse, get himself killed to free him. Besides, he wasn’t sure Ol’ Randy would walk out the front gate if he opened it for him, regardless of what the veteran said.

  “Bobby, Bobby is not safe. They will kill him. I know the hate in their souls, they will kill the boy. You have to help." Ol’ Randy sat slumped with head in hands. Sorrow-filled sobs carried each syllable.

  “If you promise me you’ll eat something I’ll see what I can do,” Cale lied. He had no intention of causing trouble. The Settlement had seen enough heartache. And even those that harbored a new hatred for Ol’ Randy would feel crushed if he were to be killed at the hands of their
own. They were supposed to be above the savage nature of the raw countryside; they weren’t supposed to be the instruments of their own destruction.

  “I’m not gonna eat like no damn animal, son. I want a proper plate, a cup, and a fork or somethin’ . . . ain’t no damn ungodly beast."

  “We tried that already. You damn near killed the Pastor with a fork.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ he didn’t have coming to him, son,” Ol’ Randy said smugly.

  “If I bring you a proper plate you have to give everything back to me. Then,” Cale raised a pointed finger to the sky and continued, “and only then, will I help you. Got it?”

  “I got it.”

  “Now let me see what I can scrounge up." Cale departed, making sure he double checked the lock on the cell, and triple checked his own sanity. He’d never felt so conflicted in all his life.

  Shortly after Cale left Ol’ Randy began to plot. He’d only have a narrow chance at breaking free. Sure, he’d have to injure the young man, but nothing that he wouldn’t heal from given time. What worried him was being able to remain focused. He’d spent many months in inner turmoil with how he wanted to handle his situation. Deciding then to remain stalwart, and refusing to be combative with the Folks, he would serve his time and get right with the Lord.

  A simple decision. But one based on the hopes of Bobby’s survival. Jackson and Thomas being sent to Baylor changed everything.

  The Pastor meant to finish the job if the boy surfaced there. Ol’ Randy couldn’t allow that to happen. A high-pitched squeal disrupted his thoughts. As tall as he was he could not reach the small slit of a window, nothing more than a thin rectangle of light that cut through the stone walls. He could make out golden clouds of a warm afternoon, the slight breeze by the movement of them. And somewhere not too far of the kids were playing baseball, he realized, as the crack of a bat accompanied the squeals.

  The smell of the air packaged with the sounds sent him back to his childhood. In a world he didn’t even consider real anymore he was being led along by his father towards the roar of a crowd. It was a rare thing to be able to go to a Braves game, rarer still to be in the presence of a sober father on a warm summer afternoon. Boiled peanuts, cotton candy . . . no, must not . . . he tried to fight the memory—Bobby, the sacrifice of the women, Yannek. But the call of the field proved too powerful.